


bless me, father

by asteronomic



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Art, Drama, Firenze | Florence, M/M, Romance, Short One Shot, architecture, medici au, nobles - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 07:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12979005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asteronomic/pseuds/asteronomic
Summary: In Renaissance Florence, Feliciano struggles under the weight of his family name.





	bless me, father

**Author's Note:**

> the medici were a family of florentine bankers. they straight up ruled florence. they weren't nobles, per se, as their origins were merchants, but they were -- and still are! -- a big deal.  
> feliciano is cosimo, romano is lorenzo.  
> also, lovino isn't really an italian name -- hence why i've used romano.

“Romano, you know that I cannot become a banker.”

Feliciano stares at his stacks of papers, trying to make sense of the numbers dancing in the candlelight, as if to taunt him. He does not think in figures – or at least, when he does, they are the figures of beautiful men and women, of Venus and of Minerva, not of a Venetian loan. 

“Then let me take over,” his older brother says from his chair by the fire. “But I should like to see you convince Father.”

“ _Surely_  he must see that it is you who should carry on from him. It suits you so much better – and I cannot even speak in front of an audience, let alone carry the financial weight of the city on my shoulders.”

Romano scoffs. “I think you would do perfectly well, actually. Father prefers your charm and eloquence. He believes I am too ostentatious to lead a bank.”

Feliciano looks up from his work to his brother’s crimson cloak and shining boots. He does not give further comment on the matter. “I intend to meet with an architect from the North tomorrow,” he says, looking back at the figures.

“The North? A Venetian? Or Genoan, perhaps?”

“More so. He has travelled from Constantinople, but hails from Bavaria, I believe.”

“And what business do you have with this architect?”

“Romano, please. I simply intend to enquire about the Duomo.”

“The Duomo? Feliciano, you are wasting your time–”

“I know!” Feliciano says quickly. “I know. It cannot be completed. But if I must dedicate my life to taxing and lending and taking and balancing – I should like to try, at least, to influence the creation of something beautiful.”

“You are still a child,” Romano tells him, and it hurts more than Feliciano believes it should.

* * *

In the morning, Romano sweeps a maid away somewhere and the two do not emerge until dinner. In the centre of Rome, Feliciano finds his Bavarian, and the two sit together in a building far removed from the chaos of the marketplace.

“It is impossible,” the man says gruffly. “It will crumble in. However, it is a beautiful building. It would be a tragedy to leave it unfit for prayer.”

“You should assess it yourself,” Feliciano says. “You must come to Florence, I will pay your travels – if there is any possibility that it can be done, I wish for it to be done.”

“Young man, your vigour is admirable. I will consider it, but it is unlikely that there is a solution.”

The golden-haired man speaks kindly to him with his heavy accent. Feliciano does not even know how to address this stranger, but after years straining under the weight of his father’s expectations and his brother’s jealousy, he feels he has found a saviour in this architect; he may never be an artist himself, but if he can fill his city with pieces from other masters, that will be his motivation.

“I have faith that it is possible.”

The man nods once, and pulls out a thick sketchbook. Feliciano is sure there there are more numbers it in than drawings – but then, he felt that this stranger may prioritise the technicalities more than he does. Perhaps that is why just one of them is an architect.  
  
“How should I call you?”

Feliciano hadn’t even realised he had neglected to give a name. “Di – Vargas. Feliciano di Vargas.”

“Ludwig Beilschmidt. I will send a message when I have considered the matter further,” says Beilschmidt, and stands to leave.

“Wait,” says Feliciano. “Signor Beilschmidt, are you a highly religious man?”

“To a heathen, I would appear so. But it is most likely that to the Pope, I am a sinner.”

“Then you won’t take offence if I should lose my conscience for just a moment?”

Beilschmidt shakes his head. Feliciano approaches, slowly, and with the grace of a celebrated performer, traces the chiseled features of Beilschmidt’s face. Beilschmidt does not flinch, but rather leans into the touch, and Feliciano feels that this must be how his brother’s maids feel; faint with excitement, yet prickling with guilt.

But suddenly they are pulling apart from each other, as the heavy door to the room is opening and they are shaking hands as another young craftsman comes in and bows to Feliciano–

“Signor de Medici,” he says respectfully. 

The blood drains from Beilschmidt’s face, and although the boy has gone now, there are two, four, six steps between them.

“You are Feliciano de Medici.”

Feliciano nods, and Beilschmidt leaves without a word.

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment if you, too, are but a maid swept off by romano de medici. tumblr: @scandinavienne


End file.
